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By now, everyone has heard about this dude. Apparently he met his one true love in a pub in Ireland two years ago and now he is going back to Ireland to find her.

Having spent many years on the internet dating scene, I feel I’ve met this guy before. He is “Instant Relationship Guy.” Instant Relationship Guy thinks you’re awesome, in fact he thinks you are PERFECT! He’ll tell you so upon first meeting you, if he hasn’t already declared it during your initial phone conversation.

Here’s the thing, I know I’m a great catch (ask the hubby), but there is NO WAY to know how great I am upon first meeting me. I mean, you can get a pretty good idea (I’m pretty funny, and don’t have a hunchback – both pluses) but I’m definitely not perfect.

When a guy declares that you’re perfect upon first meeting you, your five-alarm bells should signal something is off. Because nobody is perfect. NOBODY. This guy is not looking for a girlfriend, he is looking for a an archetype. Someone to fit into his idea of what a woman is/should be. Sooner or later, when he finds out about your previous marriage (floozy), your love for all things Real Housewives (shallow), or your hatred of Nickelback (completely reasonable) he will move on since you’ve let him down. Your perfection will splinter, shatter and then slowly fall away revealing the real, flawed you.

Real love involves loving the flaws. And that only comes through time. Instant Relationship Guy gets off the honeymoon phase, where everything is rainbows and gum drops and ooey gooey feelings. When shit starts getting real? He’s out. And back on Match.com, chasing that friggin unicorn: The Perfect Woman. Not you.

This is my biggest problem with modern day romances, be it novels or movies. My biggest issue with Twilight was that Edward was obsessed with Bella for no damn reason. She smelled good, but was a horrible person. Also he followed her everywhere, he was a stalker. And girls everwhere swooned because he loved her so much. Barf. (Also, if a guy ever breaks into your house to watch you sleep, please call the police. Do not swoon and write about it in your diary. Unless you are planning on leaving evidence behind for the police to find your killer).

So I wish this guy well. I mean, I want people to fall in love. Being in love is WONDERFUL and every day is a better day because my hubby is in it. But we took a while getting there. Not an extremely long time (he proposed officially six months after we met) but he NEVER called me perfect. He knew better. Now he really knows how imperfect I am, and loves me because of it, not in spite of it.

I do have a sneaking suspicion though, that this gentleman who flew across the pond to find his magical leprechaun love is pulling a fast one on all of us. Perhaps he just invented the greatest pick up line of all time. He’s the guy on that magical quest to find his elusive lost love. Think of how great that line will go over at a bar full of sleazy dirtbags. This guy has found the perfect line to get a woman’s attention – he just wants to find “the one.”

I have a feeling somewhere, Barney Stinson is saying “Challenge Accepted!” and catching a plane to Dublin.

Apparently someone read my blog post the other day, and 24 hours later I found my wallet shredded to pieces.

Now, normally I’d be pissed off since the wallet was expensive. However, I am impressed that somehow she was able to unzip my purse and remove my wallet. That shows real skill for someone without opposable thumbs. Impressive.

I shouldn’t be surprised though. This is the same crafty pooch that used to flip the couch cushions over and tear out hte stuffing from the inside. This was after she’d unzipped the other cushions, also.

Once we decided to get a scat mat to keep her off the couches, as you can probably guess that backfired. She figured out that only the top of the mat was electrified and I watched her slip her nose UNDER the mat, flip it over on itself and gently remove it so she could chillax on the couch. I’ve since just resorted to putting blankets down on all the couches. It’s just easier that way. She won.

In any case, I’m currently really miffed that I have to buy a new wallet, but I can’t say that I’m not disappointed about having something new to shop for. The only downside is I have to wait for mybank to send me new cards because the current ones all have puncture marks in them from her teeth.

For your entertainment, here’s a video of the Cookie Monster breaking and entering. We’re doomed. She is smarter than me, I fear.

Now, before you get all defensive that your perfect little cherub is not a cat poop eating fur beast, let me just ask that you open your mind and read a bit before you roll your eyes so far in the back of your head you pass out

Also, in the interest of full diclosure, please note that I have not bred yet and am therefore completely basing all of my observations on my experiences with my 95 lb. Doberman and judging my two sisters (who have 5 kids between them).

1. Have A Little Patience, yeaaah yeaaaaah: Having a dog requires a lot of patience. Why you ask? Because when that puppy comes home she is a spazz. A spazz of epic proportions and she is simply TOO LITTLE right now to understand most commands – or just too hyper to focus. Similarly, your child will not reason for the first three years. Sure, they’ll get the meaning of “no” soon enough, and when that happens they’ll turn it around on you. A LOT. But reasoning with them? Oh hell, no. They understand, hungry, sleepy, and MINE! And that’s about it for the few years. The rest of the time you are dealing with a screaming little ball of Id –if you don’t have any patience, buddy – you are so screwed.

Having a dog that constantly ignores you, follows orders when she feels like it and pisses in the house will undoubtedly teach you a little patience. And good for you! Because once you have kids, you will learn to have a whole other type of patience. And wish you could use the dog crate. I kid, kind of.

2. Things Are Gonna Get Gross: As I have mentioned before, dogs are straight up nasty. Not to be too descriptive, but until you have pulled a feminine product from the throat of the beast that loves to lick your face every morning, you will not know what the definition of “disgusting” is.

That is of course unless you are familiar with the phrase – “diaper blowout.” In that case, you know what disgusting is because that brown goo just went all over the car seat, onto the seat cushions and your baby is now wearing a shit-bib. It’s awesome.

No, no it isn’t. It’s friggin nasty and you are covered in shit.

But here is where I have the one-up on those of you who are new parents and have never hadto pull a tampon out of your dog’s mouth – I know what gross is. I also know how to get a situation HANDLED when it gets viscerally nasty. Quickly, breathing through your mouth, while repeating the phrase, “sogrosssogrosssogrossSOOOGROSSSSS!” I find that little chant helps. Not as much as breathing through your mouth though.

Shit will get nasty, my friends. Just be prepared.

3. Your Stuff Is Going to Get Ruined. Oh yes, prepare to have your house destroyed. Unless you end up rescuing an old bassett hound from the pound named Rufus and all he does is warm the tile up for you every morning – your house will be destroyed.

Since we’ve had Cookie, we’ve lost about 30 pairs of socks, countless t shirts, she’s chewed up the couch cushions, once she ate my husband’s watch, she even destroyed the hair dryer at the Groomer’s. Thankfully she’s terribly cute and they didn’t make us pay for it.

Similarly, your kids are going to ruin everything. They will pee, vomit, and rub their poop on things you love. They’ll also find it HILARIOUS to put random things in random places. Your DVD player is a great place to shove skittles, or wipe peanut butter on your television set. I know people who have lost tv’s, paint jobs on their cars, ruined tile floors, you name it – your kid can ruin it. Just be prepared to love your child morethan your things. Which really, you should be doing anyway.

4. Kiss Happy Hour Goodbye. I used to be the Happy Hour Queen, I really was. If there was a place with 2 for 1 and my friends were there? Count. Me. In. But ever since we go the dog, well – someone needs to let her out to pee. I have to go home first, and once I’m home, forget it. I’m in. I’m not going anywhere.

Actually, almost everything is scheduled around the dog. You can’t take vacations without making arrangements. You can’t stay out all night – I mean, you CAN but know that at 7 am you have to get up anyway to make sure someone does not piss all over your couches (hopefully it’s not you, you drunkard!)

But what I really mean by all of this – is that when you own a dog, you get a little taste of what it’s like to prioritize your time and life around caring for someone/something else. Without you, that poor fuzz ball will be lonely and uncared for. You have to make time for someone/something other than yourself.

So, If you are a selfish person, just don’t do it. Don’t breed, and don’t bring a furball into your home. Get a plant, or a subscription to Netflix.

I would like to take this moment to tell you how very much I’ve missed you. Honestly, time passes so slowly without you and then, last night, it felt as if the world spun a little faster while I was watching you. That could also be due to the fact that I was holding onto to the seat cushions for dear life as this season started ramping up. You did not waste anytime with the cruel, meaningless violence, and I appreciate that.

You see, I’ve fallen so in love with your characters that I sometimes forget they are all murdering psychopaths. So thanks for reminding me.

I also appreciated how quietly you reveal the complete derangement of Jimmy’s Mom, Jillian. That woman is a sick twisted bitch, and I just really hope Richard kidnaps that little boy and takes him someplace safe and far far away. But see, Richard’s a gangster, too. But at least we know he wont molest the little guy. Man, that Jillian is awful.

And our good all Nucky, I love how he is on the upswing. He’s got his wife, his pretty mistress, a gorgeous house and he’s setting things up for the easy gangster life. But we all know that won’t last.

Because holy shit, Bobby Cannavale’s Gyp Rosetti is terrifying me! The kind of unstable rage, barely concealed that you never know when he’s going to erupt and beat you senseless with a crowbar and steal your dog.

In closing, I’d just like to say that I am so happy to you back in my life, creeping me out, pissing me off (Damn you Jillian!), and reminding us what natural breasts looked like.

I’ll see you next Sunday.

P.S. And please let Van Alden get all gangster on us. Michael Shannon is devastating in his quiet suffering, and he really needs to work out some ragey issues.

I couldnt take it anymore, I’d had it. So I quit Facebook. A couple of my friends were horrified, some thought I’d “defriended” them and are now offended, and some people could give a crap. Three weeks after I kicked my FB to the curb, I feel better for having done it. You see, Facebook had just served to seriously annoy me several times a day and I just couldn’t see why I would want to keep allowing myself to get annoyed. I’d log in, sigh loudly and curse at several people under my breath and then log off. Rinse, repeat. So I said, eff it! I turned that shiz off.

1) “The Friends Factor:” While it is pretty awesome to be able to keep track of friends who have since moved away and out of state, it is also NOT AWESOME to see that they are in town visiting other friends. Which is why the word “friend” as it relates to Facebook just bugs me. Can we have categories, like “acquaintance?” Or, “person I will ignore as I pretend to be taking a call on my cell phone when I see them at the mall?”

If you are my friend, you will have my phone number and I will have yours. And we’ll be able to call each other up and chat and it will be all good. “Liking” a photo of my dog, or “poking” me does not mean we’re friends. My friends exist in real time, not the ether of the internet. So, if you are my friend and you are in town and don’t visit me, at least call me to tell me. Or don’t post about it, cuz that makes me haz a sad.

2) “The Family Factor:” Once your Mom figures out you have a Facebook account, forget it. Every photo of my dog she “likes” and comments on the minute it’s uploaded. I can’t post anything without her commenting all over it.

Once your Mom has a Facebook account, all is lost. Move on.

3) “The Gaming Factor:” Seriously, does anyone work anymore? I mean, everybody is playing some newfangled word game and nobody is working. My phone keeps “dinging” because someone has won 500 points at Wordscrabblebogglebarf! Everytime I hear the new “jobs report” my phone dings and reminds me that – Hey! America is working, just not very hard. (Which, now that I think about it,I need to figure out these notification settings on my iPhone? I’m so confused . . . .)

4) “The Sympathy Factor:” If you are having a bad day, I’m sympathetic. But cryptic status updates about, “The world is such a horrible place, my heart is breaking into a million pieces, can someone pass me a razor?” MUST be followed with a detailed explanation and had better not be due to the fact that you ran out of mayo for your sandwich. Now, if it is regarding Amy Poehler and Will Arnett breaking up? Hold me.

5) “The Braggart Factor:” Really? It’s six am and you just ran eight miles? Good for you. Wait – you also lifted weights and rescued a puppy from a sewer drain? Awesome. Guess what? I just took my morning dump, AND it was awesome. Also – it really happened. Unlike your morning. So shut up. You’re annoying. And probably lying. I just know you ate a box of Cheez-its and are watching Kelly and Michael. Don’t lie to me. I’m onto your charade.

6) “Time Wasting Factor:” Now I can tweet more since I am no longer on Facebook. I have traded one vice for another. Don’t judge me, and if you do, make it under 140 characters.

let me just share you with the epidemic that is taking place in Miami. It’s camel toe people. For those of you who may not be aware, camel toe is the situation that happens in your lady place when your pants are too tight, and then your vagina gets all greedy and just pulls all that cloth in and around your biscuit – hence the term “camel toe.”

You may think those white pants are cute, and you may not have worn underwear so that we can’t see your thong, but GIRLLLLL, I am not your gynecologist. Put some underwear on, and wear clothes that fit. For the love of GOD! I do NOT need to SEE that!

Today at the hospital (I go to a hospital to get my eye exams) I saw a young-ish woman (obvs she was late thirties aiming for late twenties. FAIL) and she had see through whitepants on and no underwear. AND she had a young son with her, who undoubtedly will be unpacking this mentally for years to come and it will play out in his many future failed relationships. THANKS MOM.

Anyhow, I see it EVERYWHERE! I actually call it the “Dolphin Mall Look,” which is a popular outlet mall here and it must be a breeding ground for the camel toe, because it is everywhere.

And NOBODY bats an eye at it!

Now, I think that perhaps not all of these women are showing their chocha off on purpose. I believe that some just do not want to buy a bigger size pants, they are in denial they’ve gained weight. To these women I say, get yourself to Ann Taylor girl. Buy that size 14, because wearing a size that fits actually makes you look smaller.

Case in point – I recently bought several dresses in a larger size, and for the next two weeks everyone asked me if I had lost weight. Noooo, I just dress so my boody doesn’t bounce out of my jeans. A muffin top is NEVER sexy.

But some of these women actually think the tight pants look sexy, despite the very real threat of a raging yeast infection.

Yes, ladies. Walking around in the Miami heat with a yard of denim up your cooch is not healthy. Or comfortable. I imagine it would be like trying to carry around laundry in your vagina all day long. No bueno!

So the moral of the story is, Miami, please start buying pants that fit so I don’t have to see your labia. I appreciate it.

I have escaped! If you want to book me for appearances, please call 1-800-BACON and ask for Margarita my publicist. I’M FAMOUS BITCHES!As a recently freed political prisoner, I am currently working on my Memoir, Pig in A Blanket: Escape from the Griddle. In my free time I like to roll around on my back, poop wherever I please, and eat until I pass out. I also enjoy reading graphic novels, Manga and my favorite show is Downton Abby. (Although all my littermates call it “Downtown” Abby, I’ve stopped correcting them).

Dear Glitzy,

As you are probably now all snuggled up in a nice warm bed of mud and your belly is full from a heaping helping of pig slop, I think we can talk. Piggy to crazy blog lady, you feel me?

I know it must have been humiliating to have your piggy toenails painted. If you want to, you can trade horror stories with my Doberman. Her favorite color is pink, by the way. (Because I told her so! Now smile pretty for Mama, Cookie). And doubly humiliating that apparently they never thought to Google the appropriate way to hold a pig, so apparently they kept pinching your little pig nuggets every time they picked you up. Squeeeeeeal!

But I think the biggest issue for me, is that every time you were onscreen, it was like you were on a razor’s edge. Let’s be frank here for a minute, these are people that eat roadkill. Granted, venison is good meat, I am a fan, but these are people who DO NOT WASTE ANYTHING! (See June’s toilet paper cache). Meaning, it would have only been a matter of time before you were on that barbecue.

Listen, I’ve been married to an Argentine for five years now, and I know what that look means. I saw the look on June and Sugar Bear’s face, and they were calculating how many meals they’d get out of you. Maybe that was why you squealed so much?

I even asked my husband if we could rescue you, but he said no. “Do you know what the problem with having a pet pig is?” he asked. “No,” I replied.

“They’re delicious.” And then he smacked his lips and started preparing some chimichurri. You would have been no better off with me. Razor’s edge, my friend.

So I just wanted to say, congratulations on being a free pig. I hope the next home you land in gives you tons of love and affection and doesn’t squeeze your piggy nuggets. And they don’t eat you.